Winter Soldier, Spring Revival
by Blurring Fandoms
Summary: Life is strange when you're out of place. Bucky tries to cope with the new world around him, the loss of his arm, and the loss of his friend. He was a pro at finding his targets, but can he find peace? Post CA:TWS.
1. Chapter 1

Cold. Phantom feelings. Bucky Barnes sits in the coffee shop with a jacket on and a glove over his left hand. He stares through his cup of black coffee, he can't stand all those frilly flavors, and lets everything fade away but the cold burn where the metal crawled under his skin. Or maybe his skin crawled over it. It doesn't matter. All that matters is the cold burn that is his constant companion. It's the only thing louder than the emptiness he's settled into.

He's tired. He's tired of the emptiness. He's tired of trying to figure out the nuances of actually existing in this era. The waitress that he always sees when he comes here flashes him a smile he can't return. She's called a barista now. He's missed so much. He's missed so much, and Steve is alive, and he really doesn't know what to do with his life now. He's seen Steve on the television in his dusty motel room. He can't go find him. Not after what he's done.

"Would you like a refill?" the barista asks, and it startles him. She glances down at his full cup. "Oh, never mind. Sorry to bother you."

"That's fine," he mutters. She can't seem to manage a cheery smile this time. He reeks of despair and she looks concerned. "Thanks," he adds. She hesitates for moment. She seems as if she is about to say something, but she leaves.

He tosses a handful of bills on the table and leaves, beginning the long walk back to his motel. Eventually he'll have to find something more permanent. For now, though, the dingy room with a lumpy bed and single set of drawers to hold the television is his home. It's better than its predecessor. He sits on the end of the bed and turns on the television. As the news plays in the background, he flips through the help wanted ads in the newspaper. He's been working day jobs. He doubts he can get anything more permanent with his background. There aren't many people who are a hundred years old and look like he does, and he certainly isn't Steve Rogers.

Steve. The name echoes in his mind. Half of him wants to go find him. Half of him knows Steve would probably forgive him. Steve has always been his best friend. There is a malicious voice, however, a voice that sneers at him in Russian, telling him he's worthless. The voice tells him Steve would've turned him in, had he stayed around long enough. He tries to ignore that voice. It is the silence, though, or as close as he ever gets. He wants to ignore the voice. He's tired of hiding. It's been a month. Steve worked so hard to bring him back. Surely he'll forgive him.

Bucky flops back onto the bed, coercing a symphony of creaks that have become his background noise. He rolls onto his side to trace the lines of his metal arm. He stole a set of sharpies and turned the star on his shoulder into a scribbled, crooked Captain America shield. Steve was always so much better at art. He drifts off into restless sleep. He's not good at sleeping anymore, not since Hydra.

The next day he has a job putting up a fence. It's easy work. The chill of the morning keeps him cool, and the sun that shines through the empty branches warms his head. He's grown accustomed to bundling his hair into a ponytail. He knows he should cut it, but he'll do a poor job, and he can't afford a barber. Right now the motel bill is the priority.

"Would you like a drink?" asks the old woman who gave him the job. He manages a weak smile and accepts. Her smile falls away as she concentrates on his face. "You look familiar son," she says, her brow wrinkled in thought.

He turns away abruptly. "I just have one of those faces, I suppose," he mumbles.

"Alright," she replies, though her voice still has an edge of confusion to it, as if there is something just beyond her grasp. "Well I'll go get you that drink. If you'd like, I have some tickets to the Smithsonian for that Captain America exhibit. I've already been."

"No thanks," he says. His grip on the hammer nearly splinters the wood.

After he's done working, he goes back to the coffee shop. He finds it useful to watch the world for a little while. He orders a cup of black coffee, and the barista chuckles.

"I can let you borrow a cup, no charge, if all you want to do is contemplate it," she says, venturing a soft smile.

He's caught off guard, and stutters a moment before he can muster a reply. "No, I'd like the coffee please—" he looks for a nametag, but she isn't wearing one.

"Catherine," she supplies.

"Catherine," he repeats. "I'll take the coffee please, Catherine." He's gotten better at conversation. He's used the jobs as practice. He almost returns the smile Catherine flashes as he takes his change. It's progress.

The coffee shop is his classroom. He watches the mannerisms of the people around him. He was trained as a spy. Observation is easy. Integration is a little harder. Blending in is part of the job though, right? Catherine startles him when she sets down his mug.

"Sorry," she says. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," he says, a little too gruffly. He clears his throat before he continues. "Thanks. For the coffee."

She nods and leaves. Bucky groans, running his hands down his face. A clump of hair has fallen into his eyes, and he brushes it away. Sugar. He needs a little sugar for his coffee before he loses himself in the paper. He doesn't like the tiny packs of sugar. He misses the days when he could go to the diner on the corner and pour sugar into his coffee. He contemplates getting a sugar bottle for his motel room. It wouldn't really do him any good, since he comes here for his coffee. It'd be a frivolous purchase, and he can't afford those yet.

The world has begun to settle down. He can see it in the shoulders of the news anchors. The eyes around him don't dart to and fro so frantically anymore. It makes it easier for him to sit still. Luckily, he can count the people that he's had to convince he isn't the Winter Soldier on one hand, but even one close call is too many.

Winter Soldier. The name leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. It's the taste of rubber mouth guards and electricity. It tastes like iron, like blood.

A passing siren brings him back, and he realizes he is clenching his jaw, and his cup. Luckily, the mug is in his right hand. It may not have survived otherwise. He takes a deep breath and sips the coffee. It burns his tongue, but he takes another sip. The sting is a solace of sorts. It's distracting.

He leaves once his coffee is gone. He doesn't realize until he's halfway down the block that he returned Catherine's smile.


	2. Chapter 2

He falls into a restless slumber back at the motel. Nightmares of a battered Steve plague him. His body is now entirely covered in metal, and he is bathed in blood. His own screams are drowned out by Steve's cries. He watches as his friend falls into the water again and again and again and again. He can't tear his gaze away, no matter how hard he tries. He can't pull his eyes away as Steve fall for what he seems to instinctively know is the last time. He can't pull his eyes away as hot blood rains from the sky, saturating the back of his head. The water swirls into a vortex, and he finally falls as well.

He wakes with a start. He is drenched in sweat, and his metal hand has torn a hole in the mattress. He's so tired of nightmares. It's moments like this that he yearns for the quiet of a cryo-freeze. He wants to rest so badly. He knows that won't happen, however, so he drags himself out of bed. Stripping off his wet clothes, he steps into a cold shower. He stands with his head hung, letting the water run down his back and drip from his hair. He doesn't know how long he stands there. It's long past sunrise and he's shivering violently when he steps out. He gazes at himself in the mirror, still wet and dripping on the floor. He doesn't know the shaggy haired man with the haunted eyes in the mirror, and he doesn't like him. His robotic arm winds up, ready to shatter the mirror, stopping just short of the glassy surface. He rests his hand against it instead, and glares at himself. The monster in the mirror needs a shave.

He is trying to maneuver the little two-blade disposable razor he bought at the convenience store down the street. So far he has cut himself twice. There are beads of blood on his cheekbone and jawline. He contemplates shaving his head as well, but decides it is too big of a job for the little plastic razor. After a little more hard work and one more nick, his face is clean. He lets out a sigh of relief. Now he feels a little more human.

Catherine smiles when Bucky walks in. He was a ladies' man back in the day; he knows that smile. He straightens his shoulders and holds his head high, glimmers of his glory days drifting through his mind. He feels handsome. The monster has been caged for the moment. In this blip in time, he is okay. He leans against the counter and flashes a lopsided, out of practice smile. His face feels odd, but she continues to smile, so he thinks he's doing alright.

"One coffee please," he says, then, as an impulse adds, "unless you'd like to join me." She giggles, and he can feel his cheeks burn. He feels absurd.

"I would love to, but I'm on the clock. Sorry. Name on the coffee?"

He doesn't know if she's being honest or not, but nonetheless he smiles, tells her his name is James, and heads to his table. She startles him again when she sets down his coffee.

"So, you aren't a serial killer or anything, are you?" she asks. He knows she probably intended it to be a playful question. It causes a pain between his temples however, because that's exactly what he used to be.

"No," he lies.

"Well then," she says with a soft smile, "why don't you give me a call sometime and we can get that coffee, James." She lays a folded piece of paper next to his mug and strides off.

He picks it up gingerly, unfolding it to see a phone number scrawled out in purple with Cathy above it in cursive. Three weeks ago he was killing people. Now he has a date. Bucky runs his fingers through his hair, dislodging the careful bun he put together this morning. This seems impossible to him, but stranger things have happened. He lets a small smile rest on his lips as he blows on his coffee.

The next day, after a long day of work, Bucky stands in front of his mirror. He frowns at his disheveled looking shirt. He wants to look nice, but he doesn't own anything decent. He groans and strips his shirt off, hurling it at the floor. He considers calling her up and making some excuse. The voice in his head laughs and tells him he shouldn't even bother calling her. It tells him she doesn't care. This isn't the old days, with his dandy wardrobe and his chipper confidence. This isn't like the times when he could get a date not only for himself, but one for Steve as well.

Steve. Steve would cheer him up if a girl left him hanging. Steve would be his wingman whenever he needed him. Steve would encourage him to go out with Catherine. He sighs and picks up a gray t-shirt off the floor. He tugs it over his head and goes to the mirror to put his hair back. The scabs on his face from this morning aren't really visible anymore. He tried to smile at himself in the mirror, but he can't quite get it balanced, and he can't get the furrow out of his brow. He shrugs and heads out the door.

Catherine is waiting for him at the café. She's wearing a red flowery dress, and her bronze hair is held back in a high ponytail. She smiles and waves when she sees him. It's easier to smile at her than it is the mirror. He strides over to her and greets her, then offers his good arm to her. She says something about him being a gentleman and lets him lead her to a table.

He lets his left hand rest in his lap, trying to make his glove less obvious. As they sit and chat, Bucky's gaze wanders. He can imagine this neighborhood the way it looked when he was growing up. It stings a little. He used to run around this neighborhood. Just out of sight is an alley he rescued Steve from twice.

The date is a bit of a blur. Bucky has to try hard to focus on what Catherine is saying. She's nice, but he's distracted. Halfway through their meal, Catherine says as much.

"James, are you okay?" she asks, her head tilting in concern.

"Yeah," he says. "I'm fine. I've just some old memories on this street."

A small smile crosses her lips. "Well then why don't we get out of here? We can go get ice cream or something."

Her grin is reflected on his lips. The smile in her eyes seems to quiet the angry noise in his head. He nods, and she motions for the waiter. Bucky hands over a few bills and they head down the sidewalk, bathed in the glow of streetlamps. As they walk, Catherine slips her hand into Bucky's. He flinches, startled.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles, withdrawing her hand.

"Don't be," says Bucky, sliding his hand back into hers. She smiles up at him. "So," he asks, "where's this ice cream you were raving about?"


	3. Chapter 3

They stroll through the park hand in hand, making small talk. She tells him about her cat, and her old boss who had an ego the size of Alaska. He tells her about his time in the army, although parts are left out, and he claims he did his tour in Iraq. The ice cream stand she told him about is a little cart with a striped umbrella. Christmas lights hang from the underside of the umbrella to illuminate the night.

"It's all homemade." Christine says with a smile. "Stan has been here since I was little. What do you want, Bucky? This one is on me." Bucky tries to protest, but she cuts him off. "Nope. What do you want?"

Bucky sighs. "Chocolate, please."

"And mango for me please." Christine takes Bucky's cone from Stan and hands it to him. She's still got ahold of his good hand, so reluctantly he takes it with his left hand. If she notices his single glove, she doesn't mention it. She trades Stan a few bills for her cone, and they continue down the path.

The trees have begun to bloom, and Christine laughs as she picks a tumbling petal out of her ice cream. Her laugh is light, and it makes Bucky smile. Christine catches sight of Bucky's smile and blushes, pushing her hair behind her ear. She holds her ice cream out to him with a bashful smile.

"Want a taste?" she asks. She laughs when he pokes his tongue out to scoop up a bit of ice cream.

"It's good," he mumbles, turning his attention back to his own ice cream. "I'm more of a purist myself."

"Fair enough," she replies.

They wander through the park long after their ice cream is gone. Bucky sees Catherine eye his glove, but she doesn't say anything about it, so neither does he. They stop under a cherry blossom tree. Bucky reaches up to pluck a few flowers from the branches, using them to adorn her hair. As he reaches down a second time to add more blossoms, he comes face to face with Catherine. She pushes up to her tip-toes to place a soft kiss on his lips.

The sensation had almost been lost to him. He forgot what human touch really felt like. Not fights, not the calloused hands that restrained him, but real intimacy. He lets his real arm wrap around her waist, tugging her closer. He kisses her softly, reveling in the sensation of her soft lips. His kisses are eager, and she cradles his face in her hands. When he finally pulls away, her cheeks are flushed, and she's grinning.

"Would you like to come to my apartment for drinks?" she asks, and he nods.

She intertwines her fingers in his and tugs him down the path. He watches her as her dress sways. The flowers tumble from her hair occasionally. His eyes don't leave her figure until they begin to ascend a staircase. Halfway up, he notices that the stairs are strikingly familiar. Her mumbling about war heroes that used to live in her building finally registers. He stops so abruptly that his hand is yanked from hers. He looks up frantically. He knows this place. Everything comes flooding back in a rush.

This is Steve's old apartment. He takes a step back, but misses the stair and tumbles down the staircase. Catherine is asking if he's okay, but he ignores her, trying to figure out how this is possible, how this building is still standing, how this could happen. He doesn't explain anything, he just turns and runs.

He doesn't stop running until he's back at his motel. He curls up in a ball on the floor and shakes, tears mingling with sweat until the two are indecipherable from one another. Memories assault him in violent waves. A scrawny Steve smiles at him, blood trickling down his face. Steve jostles him, newly monstrous, rescuing him from the Hydra facility. Memory after memory washes over him, and each one hurts worse. He falls asleep and dreams up new memories that hurt just as badly.

It's a week and a half before he goes back to the café. Catherine isn't behind the counter. He gets his coffee and sits at a table, starring into his mug. He nearly crushes the cup when Catherine sits down next to him.

"You're Bucky Barnes," she states.

He takes her by the wrist and pulls her outside, stopping by the street. The roar of the cars makes him feel safer. "What are you talking about?" he questions.

"Well since you overreacted so fantastically, I'm going to assume I'm right," she deadpans.

He releases her arm and runs his fingers through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut. He opens them when he feels her hands on his wrists.

"James, it's okay. I won't tell anyone. I believe in Captain America, and he believes in you. And unless you're an amazing actor, I'm going to assume you aren't the Winter Soldier anymore. It's going to be okay," She insists, brushing his hair away from his face.

"You called me James," he whispers.

"That's what you told me your name was."

"How'd you figure it out?" he questions.

"Well, you look a lot like the dashing fellow in the Captain America exhibit at the Smithsonian, first of. Then there was the glove, and you freaking out at my apartment. Little things like that." She giggles. "Would you like to go finish your coffee?"

He takes a deep breath, letting his shoulders sag. "Yeah. Would you like to join me?"

She nods, intertwining their fingers and following him back inside. They sit in relative silence. When he's finished, Catherine stands and offers him her hand. He takes it and follows her to the park.

"So, where are you staying?" she asks nonchalantly as they stroll.

"A motel," he replies.

She frowns up at him. "Really? I know we just met and all, but would you rather stay with me? Or what about Steve—" she trails off when she sees the tension in his shoulders that the mention of Steve causes. "Sorry," she mumbles.

"It's fine," he replies, "just, after what I did—"

"Steve Rogers would understand. He does, he said so!" Catherine insists, tugging him to a halt.

"I don't even know where to find him," Bucky mutters.

"I can fix that," she suggests with a small smile.


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky sits stiffly in a chair in Catherine's apartment, gripping the chair and breathing slowly. Catherine is working furiously behind a laptop, sending concerned glances in Bucky's direction every so often. After a while she exclaims happily, clasping her hands together.

"I have a source that says he goes to 'debriefing' meetings with a 'Sam Wilson' once a week at the VA. Army stuff or something. Lucky for you, those meetings are tonight." She smiles, but her smile fades when it is not returned. "James, are you okay?"

He nods soberly, but he still doesn't show any emotion. Catherine sets the laptop on the couch and walks over to him. She takes his face in her hands and gently tilts it up towards hers. "Are you sure you're okay?" she asks again with quiet persistence. This time he shakes his head. "Come here, I want to show you something." She tugs him down beside her on the couch and pulls up YouTube. A video begins streaming. Steve fidgets in a chair, and a man is mumbling off-screen.

"Go ahead, man, it's rolling."

Steve nods and clears his throat. "Thanks, Sam," he mutters. "This is Captain America," he says, and his voice is oozing the confident patriotism that Bucky remembers so well. The image moves rapidly as Catherine fast forwards the video. When she plays it again, Steve says, "And as for the Winter Soldier, that's not his name. His name is James Buchanan Barnes, and he's my best friend. Bucky, if you see this," he pauses, swallowing hard, "just know that I forgive you. I know that wasn't you, and I know we can make it right again. Just please, come back." Steve goes on to talk about loyal S.H.E.I.L.D. agents, but Bucky tunes it out. Steve's words echo in his head. '…I forgive you…make it right…come back…'

"James?" Christine ventured as she gently closed the laptop. "How about that meeting?"

He nodded numbly, still staring blankly across the room, letting Steve's words sink in.

"James?" she questions again, leaning forward to try to catch his eye.

He turns to face her abruptly. "Thank you," he mutters hurriedly as he presses his lips against hers. He pulls her closer to him, and she wraps her arms around his neck. Her fingers tangle in his hair. When he pulls away to blink at her. He brows are furrowed, but a smile graces his lips. "Thank you," he repeats softly, pressing his forehead to hers.

"Of course," she whispers back. "Let's get you ready."

She finds him a comb and a spare Bic razor so he could tidy himself up. They take a cab to the little place that the meeting is supposed to be held at. They find the room, where two men are talking, up at the front of the room. Sam Wilson, now a famous face, is facing the door, and his jaw drops when Bucky and Christine enter hand in hand. Steve's massive figure has its back facing them. Bucky tenses, but Christine pulls him in. Sam is still frozen in shock, and as Steve turns to see for himself what's so stunning, he stops as well.

"Bucky," he mumbles, then bolts down the aisle and wraps Bucky in a bear hug. Bucky releases Christine's hand to return the hug. The moment is silent, and to Bucky, it is surreal. Steve pulls away, hands on Bucky's shoulders. "I missed you, Buck."

All Bucky can do is nod. His face is rumpled into a grimace of sadness and relief. "I'm so sorry, Steve. I'm so, so, so—"

Steve interrupts him with another hug. "That wasn't you, Buck," he says, and that effectively end the apologies. "So," he says, pulling back again, "who's your friend?"

"This…this is Christine," Bucky says, extending a hand in her direction, which she takes. "She convinced me to find you."

"Well then, I suppose I owe you my thanks," Steve says warmly.

People begin to trickle in for the meeting, and Steve invites Bucky and Catherine to take a seat. After the meeting Steve suggests they go get shwarma. They sit in the little shop for hours. Sam plays music, and Steve shows Bucky the list he's compiled. Bucky gratefully accepts Steve's offer to stay with him as long as he needs.

As the night winds on, Bucky relaxes. He accepts that this is his new life. It's alien, but it's not awful. He has Steve, and Christine too. Sam declares that there aren't any hard feelings, even if Bucky did throw him off a helicarrier. For the first time in forever, Bucky feels truly human. He feels alive. Despite the cold burn of metal beneath his skin, with Steve as his anchor, he feels whole. Warm air moves in in gentle gusts, pushing away the last chill of winter. The Winter Soldier is dead now, and the Russian voices in his head are softer. He knows now that he will survive this, just like he survived the draft and the fall. With his best friend at his side, he knows he can make it to the end of the line.

EPILOGUE

"And, this'll be your room," Steve says as he finishes the tour of his apartment.

"You know, I remember being here," Bucky says, rubbing the back of his neck nervously with his metal hand. "I wouldn't think you'd've stayed put."

"Nothing scares me off. You know that, Buck," Steve replies, patting his friend on the shoulder.

Bucky smiles. "Yeah."

"Let's get you a change of clothes." After some rooting around, Steve extracts a plain blue t-shirt and chucks it at Bucky, hitting him square in the chest.

Bucky grins, tugging off his ragged shirt. He's about to tug the other one on when Steve catches his arm, leaning in to study the shiny metal, crudely drawn on with sharpie.

"That's my shield," Steve mumbles.

"Yeah, it is," Bucky mumbles, his eyes falling to the floor.

A lopsided smile spreads across his lips, but the real smile is in his eyes. "It's great."

Bucky looks up to see Steve's smile and he returns it. He finishes tugging his shirt over his head, ignoring the pull on his ponytail. "Maybe you could tidy it up for me? You're the artist, not me."

"Sure thing, Buck," Steve chuckles.

Steve waves him toward the living room, popping in Star Trek, one of the movies on his list. They eat five bags of popcorn. Bucky marvels at the effects. They watch movies until midnight, when they agree they should probably go to bed, but they end up talking until almost three.

"Night, Bucky," Steve calls when they finally go to bed.

"Night, Steve," Bucky replies. His bed is firm, and though his sleep is still fitful, his dreams are sweet.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for the read! There will likely be more coming in the future. Whether it's near or far depends on my laziness... :P Reviews are always appreciated!**


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